


This Love Is War

by SecretScrimshander (SecretSandbar)



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dominance, Established Relationship, F/M, Fight Sex, One part Character Study, One part smut, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 13:36:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16450958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretSandbar/pseuds/SecretScrimshander
Summary: Lord Shaxx is the Crucible. Ikora remains its champion, even in its most high stakes private matches.





	This Love Is War

Her arms snaking across his shoulders and draping around his neck might have been distraction enough in his younger years. Now experience screamed at him, to move, to dodge, to do something to get free from the violence trailing just behind the gesture. He managed to let himself fall, dropping like a stone, reaching for her arm, to try and flip her. It didn’t work of course, Ikora was too fast for him. She countered the heavy handed motion, shifting one hand to his horn and using her damnable flexibility to drive both feet into his spine. He had no time to stop moving, but he was no Hunter, and his speed needed momentum behind it. He spared a moment he didn’t have to curse both the tiny room and his prodigious size before driving himself up, kicking out behind himself to catch a counter that never came. 

Instead, she stood opposite him in the room, smug amusement painting her features, and not a stitch of clothing to be seen.

 

Out there, she was a Vanguard, a political and spiritual leader of the City and it’s Warlocks. In here, in his chambers or hers, she was the darling of the Crucible, the only one to best the mighty Lord Shaxx. In a way, this was almost their rematch. While the combat never went the same way twice, and he’d even won physically more than a few times, they both knew that he’d still never managed to truly best her.

 

“No,” he thought ruefully, “Ikora maintained an unbroken winstreak, even here, in the most private of matches.”

 

“Done reminiscing?” she called, that same amusement evident in her tone as could been seen in the low light.

 

He knew better than to answer her. He knew to save his stamina, to make every breath count. She wasn’t actively trying to kill him, but when they both truly got started, in between the laughter, and the sound of flesh on flesh, they’d both gotten carried away. More than once, there had been a resurrection, or two, or more. It was love, too big to be contained. Love, that needed to contend, to strive. To say, “acknowledge me!” If it left them bloody, exhausted, _spent_ , then that was the way they showed they cared.

 

He sprung for her, suddenly, without even an unspoken reply. She was ready, but he was a Titan, and no one could stop a charging Titan. He held the lightning back of course. There was no need for either of them to burn their rooms to the ground. Still, he caught her with his fist, hammering into her toned abs, sending her back into the opposite wall. That damnable Warlock glide cushioned the blow, but she was bleeding, and he kept after her. To charge again would be to destroy the wall behind her, so he came in low, to catch her off balance.

 

He realized it, as it happened. He’d let the adrenaline, the thrill get to him. Ikora Rey was never off balance, Titan charge or no. He’d come in too quickly, and he had no time to react as he felt her foot crash into the back of his skull in a form perfect axe kick. He choked out a laugh as he hit the ground for the second time in just a few minutes. Form perfect! She’d just taken his fist to her stomach and been punched into a wall! If he hadn’t been wearing his helmet, he’d have spat blood, and maybe teeth. As it was, he raised a hand, knowing he’d been beat. Oh, he certainly could have railed, and fought, and maybe brought it back, inch by bloody inch, but they’d been through this song and dance before.

 

Ikora was a very reserved person. He doubted there was anyone who truly knew her completely. Even knowing that, it never changed the thrill he felt when he saw her preen.

 

The cool, knowing smirk that tugged at her lips was constantly threatening to bloom into a full smile. Helmet or no, when Ikora Rey stared him down like that, it made _him_ feel naked, regardless of the reality.

 

“Maybe,” he thought, “there _was_ something to the idea of Warlock and prophecy.”

 

“Well, Shaxx? I see you’ve had your fill, then?” she quipped, as if the beads of sweat running down her cool brown skin weren’t picked out by the single lamp they’d left standing. As if his adrenaline heightened senses couldn’t feel the thrum and pulse of her Light quicken as she stood over him. Shaxx wore full armor, and with it on, outweighed her by at least two hundred and fifty pounds. Even still, he could only nod, held in place as she stood, one foot placed just between the fur of his pauldrons and the the flexible armor of his neck.

 

It always ended up here, in one way or another. Him, beaten, with Ikora showing him that she accepted his surrender. Him, looking up, getting lost in the crisscross of scars she allowed to remain, as trophies of their trysts. Not only remembering the ones he could see, but the ones he could feel across _his_ body as well. 

 

Sometimes she made him take the armor off. Others, she left pieces of it on. She’d always let him keep the helmet. They showed each other respect like that. Giving and taking, maintaining a careful balance of respect, just so.

 

Sometimes they had each other  hard, fast, and violent, like a hurricane gone mad. That sort of match left its own set of scars. If he rolled his shoulders, he could feel them, raised and tuned to the Arc thrumming in time with her pulse.

 

Sometimes she made him burn, teasing out an inferno of Solar energy in his belly before slamming down, filling a Void in any way he could.

 

“I think,” he said, drawling out a response “I know a total domination when I see one.”

 

She laughed, and it filled his ears like the ringing after a blow to the head, without the pain.

 

“You don’t have to use your flattery here, Shaxx,” she said, stooping to bring him up onto his knees. “I’ve already bested the Crucible.”

 

“You love it,” he shot back, kneeling beside her, feeling her hands moving to the buckles of his pauldrons with practiced ease. He shrugged out of them once they were loose, and his breastplate followed. She set them aside carefully, knowing that the armor was important to him.While she carefully set his breastplate against the wall, he detached his mark, folding it reverently. She took it carefully, and set it next to his armor, placing it atop her own neatly folded Robes. He snorted. She was a Warlock. He’d taken her against a wall, Robes pulled up around her waist more than once. 

 

She walked past him, trailing the back of her hand across his bare chest. Still kneeling, he looked up at her, waiting patiently. He could be so _very_ patient, and since she’d bested him, this time, he’d wait until she gave the word. Finally, it came, accompanied by a languorous stretching and bedroom eyes. She sprawled out on the bed, watching him wait. She did so love to make him squirm.

 

“Come to bed, Shaxx, and please, take the boots off.”

 

He did, unsealing the armor on his legs as fast as he dared, crossing the room as softly as he could manage. Even without his armor, he wasn’t exactly small. She reached up as he came closer, running her hands down his washboard abs, fingers running down over the bones of his hip. In contrast to the heat of his Light, her hands were cold, sending a shiver down his spine. She pulled him down, murmuring pleasant nothings to herself as she moved to straddle him, pressing her hands against the muscle of his chest. She moves more like a Titan than a Warlock. Like the Crucible Champion that she is. Confident. Powerful. In complete control of her every movement. She looked down at him tenderly, as if she wasn’t rolling her hips and grinding against him like she intended to win their second battle right here and now.

 

“You certainly went down easily,” she said conversationally. As if nothing was going on at all. “I expected at least one more try from you.”

 

“Any other day, Ikora.” he shot back. “But once you pulled that kick out it was over, and we both knew it. I doubt my Ghost had any desire to resurrect me with you in such a state of...undress.”

 

She laughed, rewarding him with a particularly sharp roll of her hips, the telling wet belying just how much she enjoyed their fights, and what came after. He groaned, each roll of her hips teasing at his cock, ratcheting up the need another notch. She knows of course. It’s why she does it.

 

“You’re being very patient, Shaxx,” she observes, in that maddeningly calm, dry tone. She knows he wants nothing more than to take hold of her hips, to thrust into her. She also knows he lost the fight, and won’t move an inch.

 

“Oh? To the victor goes th-”

 

She moves, just like their previous fight. Decisively. Form perfect. Effortless. Just like that, she rolls her hips, taking his cock in her cunt with practiced familiarity.

Only her groan of pleasure shows anything more than a lack of total control. He knows that that is a facade. There was a reason that he’d moved his quarters during the rebuilding of the city. Somehow, they always ended up here. Ikora, riding him, or being taken from behind, or up against a wall, or any other position from one of her extensive books on the subject, all published under pseudonyms.

 

Then she rolls her hips again, perfectly controlled, rising and falling in whatever rhythm she wanted. She cried out with complete abandon, his own gasps and groans not much quieter. His hands found her torso, pawing, pressing, and squeezing from the bottom of the swell of her breasts to the soft steel of her thighs. His abs clenched, breath coming hard and fast as she took what she wanted from him. She grinned down at him, lips pursed around a smile. The low light caught her jaw, lending it a knife's edge, and there wasn’t really any other shape for Ikora Rey.  

 

On the battlefield and in the bedroom she shone with cold light. The fierce sun beating down on exhausted combatants revealed her in the same light as the single shuttered bulb of the lamp. She was stunning in everything from battle ready robes to bare skin. She was love, and war, and everything in between, all at once. She was victory, and she took it now, grinding down, the heat of her intensifying as she ground her clit into his groin, taking from him everything she wanted. She moaned loudly, letting herself fall against his chest as he came as well, painting the inside of her cunt with her second triumph.

 

With Ikora, their every meeting was a  battle, but that battle ended in his pleasant surrender. They spent it together, the victor, resting on his chest.

 

“I think,” she said after recuperating slightly, raising one eyebrow in his direction “That puts my wins to 599/1”

 

“We both know that one didn’t count.” he replied, pulling her closer to his chest. “You only lost because the bed broke.”

 

He loved Ikora Rey. She loved him. Their love might not be particularly orthodox, but if all was fair in love and war, their love was certainly the best battlefield of all time.


End file.
